


The Little Things

by merkuria



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, bottom!Spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merkuria/pseuds/merkuria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their lovemaking, Jim's learned to live on the little things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

Jim’s learned to live on the little things.

He doesn’t get many sounds, no matter what he does. There’s a stutter in the normally controlled breath and the exhale, shaky, slipping from Spock’s mouth. Beyond that, there is nothing to suggest that the body under him is anything but calm, anything but composed. Or rather, there wouldn’t be to anyone but Jim.

He sees it all. The small twitch that starts, of all things, with Spock’s foot, and then navigates up his body making him shift a little on the sheets. He’s now a little bit closer, and while Jim is sure Spock could give him the exact figure – two centimetres perhaps – he likes to think Spock doesn’t realise he’s done it, gravitated towards Jim, much less that it’s something he always does. 

It’s still more than a little surprising to him, even after all this time. That he gets to run his hands along the inside of Spock’s thighs, and have them part in silent invitation, that he can arrange Spock’s legs on his shoulders and be met with an accommodating slide down the bed. He can do all this and more, so much more.

He used to think that after a while sex with the same person would inevitably turn lukewarm, routine, and he wants to laugh at his younger self. There is nothing routine about the way Spock’s muscles tense next to his cheek, nothing perfunctory in the kisses he feels compelled to leave on the insides of his knees, going up, trailing down – he doesn’t really care as long as he gets to travel Spock’s body, laying new paths and rediscovering old favourites. There are things he has yet to unearth, he’s sure.

Through all this, he’s being watched. Spock never closes his eyes, his gaze following Jim’s movements in silence. This is how he knows, Jim thinks, this is how he knows exactly when to yield to impatient fingers, on nights when Jim’s desperate and clumsy with want, and when to push back, forcing Jim to hunt him with all his strength, chasing and taming with bruising touch, soothing with a litany of promises whispered close to Spock’s skin. Either way, he burns.

Jim doesn’t like the fire metaphor, it’s trite. But it’s how he feels, like there’s fire in his brain, burning through the images of Spock on his knees, Spock on all fours, on his back with legs wrapped tight around Jim’s waist, his dark eyes fuelling him until there’s only lava in Jim’s veins, his skin an inferno.

For all this, he still craves more heat.

And so he reaches for Spock to take more, and the certainty that he won’t be denied is a fresh rush. He’s greedy – there are no kisses enough to satisfy him but he tries, holding Spock’s face in both hands, lying on top of him as close as he can, going as deep as possible. When he feels Spock’s arms close around him like hot irons he knows he’ll burn to ashes tonight, again, only to be reborn new and better.

He could never tire of it. As Spock’s body opens for him Jim is at his weakest, and he knows it. For that short time words abandon him altogether, his thoughts a mere scatter of _more, more_. He is engulfed; Spock’s scent and his body lead Jim further into the wilderness he’s only just begun to chart. And as he sees Spock’s fingers reach for the side of his face with unmistakable intent, Jim smiles at all his past thoughts of conquest.

It happens again as it’s happened before, and yet no two times are the same. Jim’s never tried to put it into words, for there is no need – what they do is not for telling. There’s a record of it on Spock’s body, where he left his traces, dots and lines that will soon vanish, and then be written again. 

His own body, strangely, is always left unmarked. It’s how Spock wants him and Jim doesn’t mind, doesn’t really need it like he used to. _You’re wearing my marks on the inside,_ Spock once told him and Jim laughed, falling into him, and said _Yes, yes I am._

*

Jim could make a list of the little things, if he wished, if that mattered. There would be Spock’s parted lips, in all their quiet impropriety, his fingers rubbing the bed-spread because the texture is just right and Spock sees no reason to resist the sensation; the rare _Jim_ spoken when they’re the closest, the only word to break his usual silence. There would be the tremble in Spock’s arms, and the taut line of his neck where Jim bites down, the smile he catches on Spock’s face right before the pleasure takes them whole.

It’s enough.


End file.
